somehow. This time it'll maybe the hospital. I don't know."

An orderly corporal filled in admission forms and handed them to us; each form containing the sick man's regimental number, name, religion, age, and length of military service, in addition to several other minor details having no reference at all to the matter in hand. These forms were again handed over to another orderly corporal, who stood smoking a cigarette under the blue-lettered notice pinned to the door.

The boy with the sore throat was sitting in a chair in the room when I entered, the doctor bending over him. "Would you like a holiday?" the M.O. asked in a kindly voice.

"Where to, sir?"

"A couple of days in hospital would leave you all right, my man," the M.O. continued, "and it would be a splendid rest."

"I don't want a rest," answered the youth. "Maybe I'll be better in the morning, sir."

The doctor thought for a moment, then:

"All right, report to-morrow again," he said. "You're a brave boy. Some, who are not the least ill, whine till one is sick—what's the matter with you?"

"Sore foot, sir," I said, seeing the M.O.'s eyes fixed on me.

"Off with your boot, then."

I took off my boot, placed my foot on a chair, and had it inspected.

"What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know, sir. It pains me when marching, and sometimes—"

"Have you ever heard that Napoleon said an army marches on its stomach?"

"Yes, sir, when the feet of the army is all right," I answered.

"Quite true," he replied. "No doubt you've sprained one of yours; just wash it well in warm water, rub it well, and have a day or two resting. That will leave you all right. Your boots are good?"

"Yes, sir."

"They don't pinch or—what's wrong with you?" He was speaking to the next man.

"I don't know, sir."

"Don't know? You don't know why you're here. What brought you here?"

"Rheumatic pains, I think, sir," was the answer. "Last night I 'ad an orful night. Couldn't sleep. I think it was the wet as done it. Lyin' out on the grass last field day—"

"How many times have you been here before?"

"Well, sir, the last time was when—"

"How many times?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Was it rheumatic pains last time?"

"No sir, it was jaw-ache—toothache, I mean."

"I'll put you on light duties for the day," said the M.O. And the rheumatic one and I went out together.

"That's wot they do to a man that's sick," said the rheumatic one when we got outside. "Me that couldn't sleep last night, and now it's light duties. I know what light duties are. You are to go into the orderly room and wash all the dishes: then you go and run messages, then you 'old the orficer's horse and then maybe when you're worryin' your own bit of grub they come and bundle you out to sweep up the orficers' mess, or run an errand for the 'ead cook and bottle-washer. Light duties ain't arf a job. I'm blowed if marchin' in full kit ain't ten times better, and I'm going to grease to the battalion parade."

Fifteen minutes later I met him leaving his billet, his haversack on the wrong side, his cartridge pouches open, the bolt of his gun unfastened; his whole general appearance was a discredit to his battalion and a disgrace to the Army. I helped to make him presentable as he bellowed his woes into my ear. "No bloomin' grub this mornin'," he said. "Left my breakfast till I'd come back, and 'aven't no time for it now. Anyway I'm going out on the march; no light duties for me. I know what they are." He was still protesting against the hardships of things as he swung out of sight round the corner of the street. Afterwards I heard that he got three days C.B. for disobeying the orders of the M.O.

Save for minor ailments and accident, my battalion is practically immune from sickness; colds come and go as a matter of course, sprains and cuts claim momentary attention, but otherwise the health of the battalion is perfect. "We're too healthy to be out of the trenches," a company humorist has remarked, and the company and battalion agrees with him.

CHAPTER III

Pickets and Special Leave

One of the first things we had to learn was that our ancient cathedral town has its bounds and limits for the legions of the lads in khaki. Beyond a certain line, the two-mile boundary, we dare not venture alone without written permission, and we can only pass the limit in a body when led by a commissioned officer.

The whole world, with the exception of the space enclosed by this narrow circle, is closed to the footsteps of Tommy; he cannot now visit his sweetheart, his sweetheart must come and visit him. The housemaid from Hammersmith and the typist from Tottenham have to come to their beaux in billets, and as most of the men in our town are single, and nearly all have sweethearts, it is estimated that five or six thousand maidens blush to hear the old, old story within the two-mile limit every week-end.

Once only every month is a soldier allowed week-end leave, and then he has permission to be absent from his billet between the hours of 3 p.m. on Saturday and 10 p.m. on Sunday. His pass states that during this time he is not liable to be arrested for desertion. Some men use one pass for quite a long period, and alter the dates to suit every occasion.

One Sunday, when returning from week-end leave, I travelled from London by train. My compartment was crowded with men of my division, and only one-half of these had true passes; one, who was an adept calligraphist, wrote his own pass, and made a counterfeit signature of the superior who should have signed the form of leave. Another had altered the dates of an early pass so cleverly that it was difficult to detect the erasure, and a number of men had no passes whatsoever. These boasted of having travelled to London every week-end, and they had never been caught napping.

Passes were generally inspected at the station preceding the one to which we were bound. My travelling companions were well aware of this, and made preparations to combat the difficulty in front; two crawled under the seats, and two more went up on the racks, where they lay quiet as mice, stretched out at full length and covered over with several khaki overcoats. One man, a brisk Cockney, who would not deign to roost or crawl, took up his position as far away as possible from the platform window.

"Grease the paper along as quick as you know 'ow and keep the picket jorin' till I'm safe," he remarked as the train stopped and a figure in khaki fumbled with the door handle.

"Would you mind me lookin' at passes, mateys?" demanded the picket, entering the compartment. The man by the door produced his pass, the one he had written and signed himself; and when it passed inspection he slyly slipped it behind the back of the man next him, and in the space of three seconds the brisk Cockney had the forged permit of leave to show to the inspector. The men under the seat and on the racks were not detected.

Every station in our town and its vicinity has a cordon of pickets, the Sunday farewell kisses of sweethearts are never witnessed by the platform porter, as the lovers in khaki are never allowed to see their loves off by train, and week-end adieux always take place at the station entrance. Some time ago the pickets allowed the men to see their sweethearts off, but as many youths abused the privilege and took train to London when they got on the platform, these